


Return to the Grave of Redbeard

by Mirjamiarty (Mirjam)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Parental Lestrade, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8831605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirjam/pseuds/Mirjamiarty
Summary: Mycroft Holmes was proud to say that he knew his brother quite well. At least way better than anyone else! That, however, was before the situation at the tarmac. Suddenly he was not so sure anymore.Why had Sherlock relapsed to the same destructive world he had successfully left behind years ago?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Paluu Redbeardin haudalle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117113) by [Mirjamiarty (Mirjam)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirjam/pseuds/Mirjamiarty). 



> You can read this as a pre-Mystrade if you wish to. Or not, if you won't.

When Mycroft Holmes entered that plane, he had expected to find his brother turning his coat collar up and buzzing with curiosity and impatience. Maybe excited with this new turn of events, maybe annoyed with the premature and unexpected end of the upcoming adventure. Truth be told, Mycroft hadn’t really given it much thought. Sherlock had been away for less than ten minutes!

Now in the solitude of his own office, after all that had happened on the tarmac, Mycroft caught himself wishing he’d be capable of the self-deception ordinary people practiced, to be able to blame others for his own mistakes. If only he could make himself believe that it had been impossible for him to notice Sherlock’s situation with his hands full with managing the aftermath of the Magnussen case. However, the bitter truth was that what ever happened or didn’t happen during those hours would not have changed Mycroft’s plans. He wouldn’t have, in any situation, stopped to consider his brother’s thoughts nor (heaven forbid) his feelings. He had taken those for granted. He knew his brother, for Christ's sake! Or at least had thought so.

Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited him on the plane. An erratic and incoherent Sherlock drifting in and out of consciousness and hissing insults like a cornered cat. It was not the first time Mycroft had found his brother in such a state, but Sherlock’s list had sent chills down his spine. The list was neat and written at one sitting. It was not a list of what had happened. It was a plan, and Sherlock had only began to carry it out.

Mycroft startled from his thoughts when he heard the door opening. He nodded at his assistant, who laid yet another stack of papers on his already overflowing desk. His laptop was buried under two folders and one uneven pile of envelopes. He kept on staring at the state of his table and was forced to suppress a slightly hysterical and definitely un-Mycroftish giggle. Technology should remove the need for these piles of paper! Instead, the paperwork was still going strong and literally overcoming the more modern means. Speaks volumes of the British government, does it not?

After the assistant left, Mycroft took the topmost document in his hands and started speed reading it. When he was done, he set it on a neat pile and took another. Soon he had read everything and also arranged the contents of his desk in precise order. Papers and folders were set in right angles next to each other, with one inch between the piles. The routine helped him calm down even though the contents of the documents didn’t give him any new information. Suddenly Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should take part in this investigation at all.

He sat quietly on his chair for some time (and arrayed his pens in even rows on the desk). Then he started rummaging his pockets. He took out the list he had rescued from the plane, held the pieces in his fingers and tried to deduce. Against all of Mycroft’s assumptions Sherlock hadn’t taken the possibly lethal foreign operation as a challenge. Neither had he trusted Mycroft to do everything in his powers to keep him alive. Instead, he had given up and hatched a plan to avoid the whole operation: If the plane had landed according to the plan, all MI6 could have done was to announce the death of one of their agents.

 

Never before had Mycroft felt this inadequate at his own desk. It wasn’t like this even on his first day at the office when half of his colleagues had doubted his skills and the other half his trustworthiness! Back then he had purposefully started to build himself a fulfilling career and occupation which has finally, after hard and tedious work, paid off and is now offering him enough intellectual challenges to keep his mind occupied. Right now, however, the pieces of the dangerous puzzle, set neatly on his desk, were only offering him the feeling of emptiness. Mycroft knew he should be concentrating on Moriarty, but whoever was behind the videotape had, deliberately or not, saved Sherlock’s life.

Mycroft divided two stacks into three so that each of the stacks had an equal number of folders, and then stopped in mid movement to stare at his symmetrically over-tidied desk. “Do you even notice you’re doing that?”, he heard Sherlock’s voice asking, and in a quick fit of anger, he struck out and threw half of the items on the floor. After that he made the decision he should have done right away: He grabbed his phone and wrote a short text to his assistant. “SH continues in London, recusing myself from decision making for now but want to receive all the materials. Will be at home.” One could not possibly stop Sherlock from interfering, but Mycroft could separate himself from the situation. Nobody would expect him to do that even though it was standard procedure in these kinds of cases. After all, for Mycroft, Moriarty had ceased to be a governmental problem and had become a personal one years ago. Only now had Mycroft started to think for the first time that maybe it had affected his judgement after all.

John Watson’s text from earlier was still as uninformative as ever: “Everything ok considering. Staying the night. Admitted his list was exaggerated but I found more drugs. Any news?”. Mycroft didn’t answer and shut his phone down altogether. Moriarty could wait. 

It was only after he had reached his home and locked the door behind him that he had to resist the urge to put his phone back on again. He clenched his fists and walked straight to the kitchen and to the refrigerator, his phone still firmly in his pocket. Overcoming one temptation with another? Terribly pedestrian and ghastly ordinary! Nevertheless, Mycroft scooped another spoonful of cake into his mouth and took a double take on the whole situation.

After several clean years Sherlock had suddenly started using heroin. As if drugs weren’t enough, he had seduced Magnussen’s secretary to get into his office (What a farce that had been! It had almost been impossible to hide those headlines from their parents and gossiping relatives, but Sherlock had only laughed!). Magnussen had been just one of Sherlock’s private cases, so what had made it all worth it? Mrs. Watson’s part in all of that had been clarified much later, so that didn’t explain the start.

On the other hand, Sherlock was inclined towards drama, and when the case had unfolded, drama he got. He got shot, defended his shooter, decided to put a great effort on saving the Watsons’ young marriage (Sherlock Holmes as a marriage counselor! Mycroft would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire) and finally committed a cold-blooded murder to save Mrs. Watson. The time Sherlock had to spend in a confinement cell afterwards was understandably difficult for him, but even that could not explain why he had acquired weeks’ worth of drugs and decided to take all that on a single flight right after take off! Being scared just didn’t fit. Of course Sherlock had, true to his dramatic style, told the Watsons he might never return, but this operation wasn’t expected to be any more dangerous than dismantling Moriarty’s web! Yes, it too had been highly risky and Sherlock’s chances had been slim, but he had left with excitement and survived by his quick wits and determination. 

Mycroft grimaced and pushed his plate back to the fridge. What could he have missed? Why the heroin? Why give up instead of fighting? The Sherlock he knew would not give up when facing a challenge or the consequences of his own actions. Mycroft had of course seen the depths where Sherlock could sink when he was offended or in need of a challenge, but never the other way around. Why now? Mycroft did not know, and not knowing was his greatest enemy. When the not-knowing was about Sherlock, it felt almost paralyzing. Mycroft hated the feeling and himself for feeling it. Interpreting human motivations and behaviour was his job and specialty! His thoughts and questions were chasing one another in (multiple) circles in his head, but the pieces did not fall into their places.

\--

Mycroft hurled his spoon to the sink. He needed distance from the situation, a reverse gear in the dead end, and clearly he couldn’t do it alone at home. After picking up the spoon and placing it in the dishwasher, he stepped to his walk-in wardrobe and pulled open the undermost drawer from his dresser. The pile of clothes he extracted from there were something few could believe could be found in his wardrobe. He began systematically undressing his suit and folding the pieces neatly before getting dressed in the new, less formal clothes. One could watch from the mirror how Mycroft Holmes disappeared bit by bit, and someone else emerged.

The jeans felt rough against skin, and a dress shirt without a waistcoat or a jacket felt somewhat revealing. The checkerboard pattern, rolled sleeves and slightly messed up hair felt shamelessly liberating, though. Mycroft Holmes couldn’t go walking aimlessly around the streets of London, but for Mike Horton, there was no problem.

Mycroft switched his phone on, checked new messages (nothing of importance) and sent a short text to his assistant: “Incognito for the evening. At home, if asked. MH”. After switching off his phone again, Mycroft took a short and simple coat from the hanger, and so Mike Horton stepped out into London’s crispy spring evening. The umbrella was left sitting in the corner: Somehow people recognized him better from that than from his face.

\--

Mycroft walked leisurely on the pavement and with every step he took, he settled more into his new character and the different walking style that came with it. Mike Horton was born years ago, when Sherlock first had started spending his nights in the back alleys and desolated houses, high on whatever cocktail he’d shot up for the night. If Mycroft had tried to look for his junkie brother (who really didn’t want to be found), or even admitted to keeping contact with him, he’d never have reached his current position in the British government. Mike, on the other hand, was a completely ordinary logistics engineer who worked at small restaurant in the lack of a better alternative. In the evenings the man donated the leftover food supplies to the homeless and the drug addicts around the neighbourhood. With this backstory Mycroft got in contact with many kinds of people, saw the unpleasant underbelly of London - and witnessed his brother’s breakdown without him ever noticing a thing.

Mike’s character felt twistedly appropriate for tonight.

Mycroft concentrated on observing the people walking the streets. He had always been interested in the doings and motivations of all kinds of people. After all, knowing the motives was the first step toward perfect manipulation. While Sherlock had always hated boring visits to relatives, Mycroft had made use of his time and learned how to control those people. Sherlock was interested in people’s motives only if they drove people to do something interesting, and needless to say, there wasn’t a lot of murder-planning among their family acquaintances. Because of this people regarded Sherlock as a difficult and conceited child but everyone liked Mycroft. Sherlock of course couldn’t keep his mouth shut about this unfairness, and never passed a chance to call Mycroft a pathetic hypocrite. After all, Mycroft didn’t hold their intelligence in any higher regard than Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled sadly at the memory and squeezed his phone in his hand by force of habit. Emergency calls would turn his phone on anyway, and he really didn’t want any other calls or messages right now, but still it felt a little wrong to keep it shut down. Sherlock was safe at Baker Street, with security personnel outside and John Watson inside. It goes without saying that Mrs. Watson would not be unarmed either, pregnant or not. Mary knew that Mycroft knew. The memory of that conversation left a bad taste, but Sherlock had been unwavering in his trust. “You seem to be taking this friend business seriously, trying to die for it?” Mycroft had mocked while trying to figure out his hidden agenda. Was there already something important at that point he had failed to observe? 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, and then walked single-mindedly into the first tolerable pub on the street. He couldn’t help Sherlock before he got his own thoughts in order and for that he needed some distance on the problem. Observing the general public would help him relax, and there was no place better for it than the local pub where patrons were talking loosely with strangers about football with a pint in hand. It was the best place to be if you wanted to talk about nearly anything with complete strangers. 

Mycroft ordered a beer at the counter (a necessary part of his disguise) and let his eyes roam over the clientele, looking for a perfect target. A young woman with bleached hair smiled to him over her pint. Mycroft (Mike) returned the smile, but lifted his gaze quickly back to the crowd. Her intentions were obvious, and Mycroft was not interested in that right now.  
Just when he had chosen his victim and started walking towards the table, someone grabbed his arm.

“Well hello, aren’t you -”, a familiar voice started, and Mycroft turned around abruptly.  
“Blimey, mate! Ya gave me quite a scare. 'ave we met? Mike Horton”, Mycroft cut him short and extended his hand to the man. Usually casual acquaintances apologized hastily for the error and left when they heard Mike’s accent. Detective Inspector Lestrade, however, was an unusually observant fellow and (despite what Sherlock said) surprisingly difficult to deceive. Right now the man in question looked at him from head to toe with eyebrows raised, then shrugged and nodded towards an empty table.

“My friend left after the match. Young kids, you know. Please join a lonely man’s company, Mike” Lestrade said emphasizing the name with an amused grin. Mycroft grimaced, but put his pint on the table anyway. Why not?

Lestrade sat opposite him with a politely expectant expression on his face. It wasn’t difficult to deduce what he was thinking, and Mycroft took delight in knowing that Lestrade had taken in the evidence, done the perfectly plausible deductions and despite all that, reached an erroneous conclusion. Soon Lestrade got tired of the silence and glanced around quickly before clearing his throat and bowing his head closer to Mycroft. 

“Do I look like I’m working?”, Mycroft asked before Lestrade opened his mouth. It was obvious, after all.   
“Well, hard to say”, Lestrade muttered and took a sip from his pint. “Maybe that’s a real uniform in.. wherever you happen to be working”.

Interesting. Lestrade really hadn’t ruled out that Mycroft was on some kind of an undercover task. The unimaginative secret agent jokes he had thrown at Mycroft in the past were clearly based on real suspicion. Mycroft would’ve smiled, but he understood the situation: Lestrade knew about the threat which Moriarty had directed at him a few years ago. Putting himself in Lestrade’s shoes, Mycroft himself wouldn’t have believed it possible that Moriarty’s video and this meeting with Mycroft Holmes in a pub happening the same day was a coincidence. Nevertheless, Lestrade was wrong. At least regarding all the important things.

“Believe me, if I would have arranged a bodyguard for you, you would not know it. And it would most certainly not be me.”  
Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. The disbelief was so apparent Mycroft almost asked what kind of lunatic fantasies Lestrade was entertaining concerning Mycroft’s work, but the crowded pub was not the right place for that.  
“I know what you two say about coincidences! Why do I bump into you at my local today, of all the days?”  
“I took an evening off, why else?”  
“An evening off?! After that video -”

“What video?” Mycroft snapped and looked around pointedly. Thankfully Lestrade shut his mouth. The video had been explained as a programming error, and it would not do to speculate about it around all these people. Mycroft grabbed his pint and took several large swallows with a grimace. He had come to the pub to empty his mind by analyzing strangers, and Lestrade was anything but a stranger. His questions and mere presence nullified Mycroft’s attempts to distance himself from the mess even for a short while. However, Lestrade was one of the three most important people to Sherlock (Mycroft absolutely did not think about how he himself was not one of them), so maybe he knew something? And if that was the case, Mycroft would have to give him something first to get him talking.

“The threat to your person was already removed before Sherlock came back. If you are still concerned about it, believe or not, I’m not here alone”, Mycroft uttered quietly and glanced towards his own bodyguard who seemed to be completely engrossed in the pub’s burger menu. He was so used to being watched by security personnel, that he almost hadn’t noticed her arrival. His assistant had sent her after him, no doubt. Mycroft almost smiled, but Lestrade stared at him with wide eyes.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not, but I really am on a day off and I certainly did not anticipate meeting you here. I assure you I did not want to meet any familiar faces, and have failed miserably on that regard”, he declared and lifted his pint to his lips. The craft beer was too bitter, but he took a sip anyway. He did not know how to proceed. Mycroft Holmes did not know how to keep digging for information from a completely average policeman? Ridiculous, but true. Thankfully Lestrade got his mouth finally open.  
“If this isn’t about my job, or even yours, it has to be about Sherlock. And if you’re taking a day off on a day like this, it has to be serious. So, back to drugs?”

The cat was on the table, and Mycroft could only nod and sip his drink quietly to conceal his lack of words.   
“Where is he?”  
“Doctor Watson is with him.”

Lestrade did not comment on it, but the expression on his face was an interesting mix of relief and hesitation. Or would’ve been interesting, if Mycroft had managed to focus on it.

“Where are they now?”  
No sign of surprise. Lestrade did not ask what happened, why Sherlock had sank back to the world he had successfully avoided for years. Lestrade knew more than he was saying, but Mycroft couldn’t ask questions without admitting his own confusion.   
“Baker Street, I suppose”  
“You suppose?”  
“Yes.”  
“Not really your style to ‘suppose’, especially if -”  
Mycroft did not stop to determine if the echoing accusation behind the words was real or just his imagination.  
“Well, as you said, the day off was not ‘my style’ either, yet here I am. You don’t know me. You may know Sherlock, and you may believe you can draw conclusions about me based on that, but I assure you I never -”  
Mycroft stopped to take a breath, ready to verbally eviscerate the policeman’s opinions. He stopped altogether, however, when he saw Lestrade’s expression. He was smiling. Lestrade was smiling so widely, that he had to apologize and take a sip from his pint before he got his face back in control. Mycroft was perplexed.

“Oh, on the contrary! Until today I’ve actually thought that one of you must be some kind of a changeling!”  
“Until today?”  
“Well, I dared to imply to a Holmes that some kind of an emotional issue could in any way trouble his mind. The answer I get is a hissy fit and some snarky remarks concerning my lack of intelligence. Trust me, this wasn’t the first time. Nor the tenth.”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade like he had just admitted to being a Soviet spy. Speechless.  
“The pattern also includes this… yes, that’s it, the rapid blinking when I mention it. What do you say if we drink these and get out of here? My flat is nearby. Let’s go and order takeaway. Everything feels a little better when you have food in front of you, and then you can tell me the latest reason I should go and yell at your dear brother...”

Mycroft could only nod and raise his glass.

\--

They were surprised by rain when they left, and Mycroft wondered how his own bodyguard could even recognize him anymore, with his hair wet and a greasy takeaway bag in hand. When Mycroft had noticed her waiting at the entrance of the cheap, small indian restaurant, he had ordered her to go home. Mycroft actually wished someone would threaten him after listening to Lestrade’s tattering for a couple of blocks, not caring about his companion’s silence. At the end of this particular day, it would actually be a relief. 

“You really left your umbrella home?”  
Mycroft didn’t bother confirming the obvious, and Lestrade didn’t seem to be expecting that either. He continued talking about some celebrity or other, and Mycroft continued with his silence, not really listening.  
“Who is Mike Horton?”, Lestrade finally asked, stirring Mycroft from his thoughts.  
“A convenient role”, he started a little hesitant. “If you wish to speak with those who would usually feel… threatened… when meeting Mycroft Holmes”, he continued explaining, eyes firmly on the pavement.  
“Why not just, I dunno, change your clothes?”  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mycroft began, shaking his head. “People get fixated on pointless details. ‘Mycroft? What kind of a name is that?’ And that is a real quote”, Mycroft tried to aim at a light tone, but found himself lacking. Lestrade laughed anyway, and Mycroft noticed how his easy-going attitude was actually a little bit contagious.

“You actually like to chat with common dudes?” Lestrade asked with unmasked curiosity. Mycroft resisted the need to roll his eyes at the generalization. People usually reacted unfavorably to his explanations regarding this, but something about his own dark mood and Lestrade’s laid-back manners made him ignore that fact:  
“I did not say that”, he answered with feigned patience. “I pick a suitable role to attract the attention of a specific person, examine his or her weak spots and exploit them depending on the situation. Some play chess, others play people”.  
Instead of distrust or confusion, Lestrade answered with a wide grin.  
“That sounds a bit scary, just saying”, he declared, and wiped wet hair away from his forehead. “What’d you have done if you didn’t know me?”  
“I would have checked which team won the match you were watching, and started a conversation by accusing the players of the opposite team of foul play.”  
Lestrade burst into laughter, and Mycroft found himself smiling a bit. The situation was weird, all things considered, but he was surprised to find himself actually enjoying their conversation. 

They continued walking in silence which was at first quite comfortable, but soon Mycroft could understand why Sherlock blamed Lestrade for thinking too loud. The policeman was looking at him with a thoughtful frown, until Mycroft finally let out a meaningful cough. Lestrade took the hint.  
“It’s just… Have I heard the name Mike Horton before?” Lestrade began hesitantly. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”  
Mycroft gave a slightly sad smile.  
“You might have heard about a man who worked part time at a small restaurant, and delivered the expiring food supplies to the homeless and drug addicts?” he confessed with a half-faked smile. Lestrade stopped and stared.  
“No way! Really? It was you?!” he exclaimed, and his confusion made Mycroft’s smile a bit more genuine.  
“You never stopped to think why he always just happened to be around the same neighbourhood where Sherlock was loitering around?” Mycroft pointed out and started walking again. He hadn’t talked about Mike with anyone ever, but Lestrade knew the situation back then better than anyone else, and the understanding soon dawned on his face.  
“I don’t know which is more disturbing, that Sherlock didn’t notice you, or you working at a restaurant”, he pondered half-jokingly. Mycroft had to roll his eyes.  
“I bought the food, don’t be an idiot”, he sneered. “And back then Sherlock would have had a hard time recognizing even his own mother. You know that.”  
Lestrade nodded and continued in silence. Under all that joking and laughing, Lestrade was clearly worried about Sherlock. That was something they had had in common for years, even though Mycroft didn’t like admitting it. Lestrade had helped Sherlock in ways that Mycroft never could, despite trying his best. Mycroft had thought that it was because Sherlock just did not want his help. That anyone else would have done. Now he could not help thinking that maybe Lestrade understood something about Sherlock that Mycroft didn’t. Just thinking about it felt inconceivable, but so had Sherlock’s escape plan today. The only way to find out was to ask, so ask he must.

The rain stopped almost instantly when they reached the front door of Lestrade’s flat. It wasn’t the same stereotypical British family home that Mycroft had visited multiple times when Sherlock had been at his lowest, but a small, somewhat run-down bachelor flat. Somebody might even call it cosy. Lestrade welcomed him in without any explanations concerning the change in his lliving arrangements, so the change wasn’t recent. After wiping his hair on a towel Mycroft sat at the table and accepted the cutlery Lestrade handed to him. Mycroft eyed suspiciously at his portion, but refused to admit out loud that this was actually his first time ever eating takeaway straight from the carton. Lestrade didn’t seem to think much of it. He ate in silence for few minutes before continuing with the conversation:

“How bad is it?”  
“Worse than ever before”  
“Intentionally?”

Mycroft nodded, and just like that, the cat was let out of the bag. When Lestrade understood without any tiresome explanations, Mycroft was left wondering why he hadn't contacted the man right away. Lestrade had, after all, been the only person to whom Mycroft could speak frankly about Sherlock. The rest of Sherlock’s circle of acquaintances were exceptionally reluctant to speak about him. Either because it was Mycroft asking (mainly Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson), or because they just didn’t want anything more to do with Sherlock than they already had to (approximately all the rest). After swallowing the first forkful of food, Mycroft decided to give up and swallowed his pride with it.

“Fortunately he did not have time to go through with it, but... That took me completely unawares, and that just does not happen to me!“ Mycroft stated, trying not to sound too defiant. He either succeeded, or Lestrade just ignored it. The detective looked like he had been waiting for him to speak frankly: He stopped eating on the spot, and suddenly focused on Mycroft.   
“Did you ask him… Sorry, stupid question”, he started. “What happened?”  
The compassion that was emanating from him nearly destroyed Mycroft’s appetite (or what was left of it), but he forced himself to swallow another forkful of rice and keep his irrational anger in check. At first he still tried to think of a way to explain things without exposing his own uncertainty, but in the end he decided to jump straight to the deep end.   
“Sherlock murdered a man, cold blooded, at Christmas. Everything has been taken care of, but maybe you should know about that.”  
If Mycroft had been expecting shock or even surprise, he was completely wrong.  
“The guy who shot him?”, the answer came quickly. Just a polite inquiry. Not doubting Sherlock’s capacity to murder, not being upset that he had committed one.  
“No”, he answered calmly. “However, it was part of the same case. Sherlock had his reasons, but those are unimportant now. He was in solitary confinement for a week before I could arrange a transfer for him. Secret operation abroad, similar to the previous one. Extremely dangerous, of course, but if the alternative was Sherlock in prison…”  
“Neither Sherlock nor the prison would’ve survived that.” Lestrade finished for him. They shared a humourless laugh, and Mycroft continued with his story.  
“You are correct. But contrary to all reason, he wasn’t excited! Last time he couldn’t wait to get out of the country to the great adventure, and now… His flight came back because of that video. Without it I would be planning his funeral. Again.”

Lestrade answered with silence, and Mycroft recognized the ‘are-you-really-that-stupid’ -expression when he saw one, though usually it was on his own face. John Watson called it once a Holmesian trademark! Now, however, it was undeniably directed at him, and Mycroft wondered uneasily whether it was well-earned.  
Lestrade sighed deeply.   
“You expected him to be excited?”, he asked shaking his head in disbelief. “You know, last time he left AND came back because of John Watson.”  
Mycroft gritted his teeth, but managed to answer calmly.  
“The Watsons were the sole beneficiaries of this ordeal as well”  
“You honestly think it’s the same thing?” Lestrade groaned, his food completely forgotten. Mycroft cleared his throat. The accusation hit home.  
“Yes, that’s what I thought, and the evidence proves me wrong. The consequences of my error are well known to me, and now also to you, so if you have nothing else to offer but asinine ques-”  
Mycroft interrupted his rant when he realized Lestrade had lifted both of his hands up in an apologetic gesture.  
“Sorry, sorry. Let me explain. When Sherlock returned from his last adventure, he expected - maybe a little naively - that he would be returning to the same life he left those years ago. It’s possible he would not have pulled through if he’d known the reality of things”, Lestrade spoke quietly and carefully, as if testing the waters.   
“Based on what?” Mycroft hissed. He hated how his self-restraint seemed to be failing constantly today. He stared angrily at Lestrade, who returned his gaze with an unsettling confidence.  
“He told me himself”, he countered. That startled Mycroft. He went through all the information he had, but could not find anything amiss. Sherlock had of course reported all his actions, even the criminal ones, in a fastidious manner, but it had been a list of acts, not emotions. Clearly Lestrade had heard a different story. Mycroft had seen, of course, how Sherlock had reacted to Watson’s stubbornness and anger at their reunion, but that had been temporary!  
“I visited him after he appeared at a crime scene with Molly Hooper”, Lestrade continued, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I was worried, you know! He called the poor girl John! It wasn’t easy for him”.

“But they came to an agreement soon after!” Mycroft objected with considerably more certainty than he really felt. “And this time Watson even knew about this and all the reasons behind the arrangement beforehand. The next reunion would not be -”  
“John has got himself married”, Lestrade interrupted sharply, with a very pointed look. Mycroft frowned, almost asked what that had to do with anything, when suddenly all the pieces fell into place. It was like he’d just resurfaced from a deep well and could finally use all of his senses again. He exhaled shakily, and Lestrade nodded at him solemnly.  
“If Sherlock was anyone else, it would’ve been obvious to you too”, Lestrade continued mildly and returned his attentions to his food. Mycroft sat quietly and endured the accusation. He finally understood he really had earned that.

He continued eating as well, just to give himself time to think (definitely not because of the calming side effect of eating). Sherlock’s disdain for the mating habits of human beings was of course mostly about self-preservation and lack of sufficiently interesting options. Mycroft had thought that there really wasn’t anyone interesting enough to tempt his brother. After all, even Irene Adler had turned out to be more about a rivalry of intelligence rather than any warmer emotions. How on earth could Watson manage that?

However, truth be told, John Watson has had the privilege of surprising Mycroft on many occasions before this as well; by refusing his bribes, for tolerating living with Sherlock, taking part in the detective games and defending Sherlock, even against Mycroft. Mycroft was well aware of the rumours and gossip concerning the state of their relationship: Even he himself had occasionally taunted Sherlock about that. Mycroft never imagined that there could have been something real to it. After all, even the friendship had been completely unexpected.

Suddenly he was reminded of a detail which he had discarded as unimportant at the time. Sherlock had been reading Watson’s blog! For his last journey on earth, Sherlock had chosen to read John Watson’s asinine blog and the story of how they met. Mycroft added all these new pieces of information to the equation, and soon he found himself wishing he hadn’t eaten at all. Sherlock’s wish to spend time and play games with Mycroft after his return? Unheard of! And what about the surprise phone call from Watson’s wedding? Mycroft remembered quite well how he had teased Sherlock about it, and abruptly that memory stopped being funny. Was Sherlock really so lonely that he had craved his brother’s company? How could Mycroft have missed the connection between Watson’s wedding and Sherlock’s relapse to heroin?

Sherlock had expected to return living with John Watson. Instead, he had to stand back (literally) and watch how the man married someone else. Lestarde was right, if it wasn’t Sherlock, it would have been blindingly obvious. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock Holmes had decided to leave this world because of lost love. Melodramatic? Absolutely. What should be done about it? Mycroft had absolutely no idea. An old memory came to his mind: Sherlock crying hysterically, small fingers buried in the dirt on a freshly covered grave. What had he said to his brother then?

Mycroft pushed his food away and looked at Lestrade with an unpleasant feeling. He tried to form a question he had never asked in his life before: “How didn’t I notice?”  
“He never actually told me”, Lestarde continued with a soft (pitying) voice, “but I helped him write that speech. I know what was said, and what was left out.”

For the first time Mycroft regretted his choice not to attend the wedding. If Lestrade was right (and Mycroft had to admit everything fit), that ceremony was the turning point he had missed. On the other hand, what could he have done? What could he do now?

“What should I do?”, he muttered, not lifting his gaze from the worn table. Last remnants of his pride had slipped from him.  
“Speak with him. Ask, don’t guess”, Lestrade stated like it was self-evident!  
“How? I don’t have any qualifications -”  
“Hey, you run diplomatic relationships with half of the world, control CCTV network, command the police for -”  
“Actually, that’s not my job”, Mycroft interrupted. He did not want to hear about his achievements now, when he had failed so spectacularly in the one thing that really mattered.  
“Huh?” Lestrade lost his train of thought, and Mycroft almost said something vicious about the art of listening.  
“The police force. That’s not my area, so to speak”, he said instead, thankful for the temporary change of topic.  
“Could’ve fooled me”, Lestrade sneered. “So it’s just a hobby for you to take murder cases from my hands to the secret service, and -”  
“You can blame Sherlock for those”, Mycroft interrupted sharply and crossed his arms. “Those were originally assigned to my colleague, but he tried to fool Sherlock once. Needless to say how well that went through. I was forced to promise to handle all personal contacts with NSY as long as Sherlock has anything to do with you.”  
“Jesus, you two”, Lestrade grinned. The memory of that incident could make even Mycroft smile a little. Lestrade, however, wasn’t fooled.  
“Really now. You don’t need any qualifications to speak with your brother! You two should -”

Lestrade's lecture was interrupted when a muffled conversation in the stairway stopped right in front of his door. The words weren’t loud enough to make out, but the rattling sound of the door lock told a clearer story. Mycroft recognized the intruders from the tones of their voices. Lestrade glanced a worried look towards him while standing up. Mycroft looked quickly around, snatched his knife from the table and slipped off towards Lestrade’s small bedroom.  
“I’m not here”, he cautioned calmly, and when Lestrade still didn’t say anything (and just stared at the blunt cutlery knife in his hand), he shrugged and shut the bedroom door behind him.

Simultaneously Mycroft heard the front door opening.  
“I need your help”, Sherlock’s voice echoed through the thin bedroom door, without greetings or apologies.   
“Sherlock!”, Watson’s reproach could be heard a little bit further away. He obviously hadn’t followed Sherlock inside, but greeted Lestrade from the doorway.  
“What the hell?!” Lestrade fumed. His exclamation, astonished (but rapidly leaning towards anger), didn’t seem (sound) to have any effect on the intruders. Watson had apparently stepped into the room since Sherlock directed his next words clearly to him: “This is not the first time I have broken into his apartment.”  
Mycroft thought he heard two similar disbelieving groans, but wasn’t sure.  
“Last time you were so high you tried to enter through the ventilation window”, Lestrade answered and drew breath audibly: “Sherlock Holmes, What. The. Hell?!”  
It really seemed like this wasn’t the Detective Inspector’s first time in this situation. Mycroft’s already uncharacteristically high regard towards him grew even more.  
“I already told you, I need your help”, Sherlock sounded bored, and Mycroft could almost hear his eyes rolling. He stood quietly behind the door and concentrated on listening the exchange.

“Are you high? Last time you dropped by like this, you -”  
“Don’t fixate on stupid details! Are you helping?”  
“Oh, we are really sorry! This can wait, we -”  
Mycroft held back a sigh. According to his tone, Watson had suddenly noticed, before Sherlock, that the table was set for two, and tried to avoid disturbing detective inspector any more. Mycroft did not need to see his brother to be certain that he wasn’t even remotely clean.  
“Oh! You weren’t alone!” Sherlock finally realized the situation too, and Mycroft hoped that Lestrade wouldn’t reveal his presence, intentionally or not. He wasn’t ready for that conversation yet, at least not when Lestrade and Watson were around. He did not need to fear, though.  
“Good of you to notice, now get out of here!”, Lestrade barked without a pause, and Mycroft let out a small sigh of relief.   
“You have someone hiding in your bedroom. The food is still warm, so your companion hid only after hearing us coming. The question is, why didn’t he want to meet us?” Sherlock asked with glee in his voice, bordering on manic. Lestrade was unmoved.   
“The question is why didn’t I want THEM to meet YOU. Think about that. Outside!”, he exclaimed with an angry hiss. Mycroft could hear footsteps returning slowly back towards the front door. Lestrade did not shrink from using force to remove unwanted visitors. Sherlock could not keep his mouth shut, though. He just laughed with some malice: “Ha! You are expecting sex! Night at the pub, takeaway… romantic”, Sherlock noted, emphasizing the last word downright mockingly.  
“Sherlock! Shut up now”, Watson’s patience for his rudeness was clearly cracking.  
“I would not have thought you went for men too”, Sherlock continued with false thoughtfulness without paying attention to his friend. Mycroft almost dropped his knife. If Sherlock were to deduce now…  
“What?!” Watson’s sceptical exclamation interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts, and he heard how Lestrade muttered something, and went further: “Wouldn’t have thought you’d have anything to say about that”, Lestrade quipped with so clear a suggestion that Sherlock seemed to snap his mouth shut.  
“What?!” Watson repeated, and Mycroft took a deep breath. By the sound of it, Sherlock was doing the same.  
“John! You saw the shoes?” he started much more quietly. “He’s an office worker, maybe an engineer. Lestrade knew him beforehand, but not that well. Based on his reactions just now, we know him too”, he continued, but lacking the energy he usually injected into his deductions. Normally Mycroft would have felt smug about how Sherlock took Mike Horton at face value, but now he just clenched his fists in frustration, and listened.  
“Anyway, he didn’t bother with table manners, so he’s hardly -”  
“How the hell can you deduce anything about his manners?” Lestrade inquired with amusement so great that Mycroft feared Sherlock would figure it out.  
“He ate with just a fork, no knife!”, Sherlock stated curtly.

Mycroft heard Lestrade’s disbelieving laugh (muffled, probably a palm over his face?), and twirled the knife in his hand. Well, Sherlock would never believe, even when sober, that Mycroft would eat takeaway straight from the box, and with just a fork. He would be safe, if Lestrade managed to throw Sherlock out before he would spontaneously decide to charge into the bedroom.

“Okay, this is about the video, isn’t it?” Lestrade sighed, giving up. He had probably reached the same conclusions as Mycroft. Someone tapped his fingers on the table, and someone (probably Sherlock) walked restlessly back and forth in the small room.  
“What else?”  
“Ok... Just... Ok, I’ll come. But you’ll owe me!”  
“Magnificent! Let’s go!”  
Mycroft’s shoulders sagged with relief. If they left now, he could disappear quietly and consider the situation in this new light. Lestrade was not thinking the same, though.  
“No. You two go ahead back to Baker Street, and I’ll follow right behind you, after -”  
“Apologizing is useless. Your partner has been listening the whole time, his ear pressed on that door. This is what you get when you have an affair with Gavin! Work always comes first!’, Sherlock shouted the last bit as a message to the bedroom. Mycroft heard Watson muttering something about pots and kettles, but that was overshadowed by Lestrade's roar: “Sherlock. OUT”.  
“At Baker Street in an hour?” Watson asked, clearly wanting to leave. He was trying to drag Sherlock with him, judging by the sounds of it.  
“All right, as long as you both get the hell out of here”, Lestrade ordered strictly. Footsteps returned to the front door, further away from the bedroom door. It seemed like Sherlock left in a hurry after getting what he wanted, because after a moment, Lestrade and Watson were clearly talking between just the two of them.

“Is he alright?”  
“I don’t know, he’s even more distant than usual, and...”  
Mycroft could not hear the rest of the silent conversation, but it was evident that both of them were worried and frustrated.  
“JOHN!” Sherlock’s shout echoed in the hallway, interrupting the two.  
“I’ll be right behind you, look after him!”, Lestrade said, and John apparently answered with some kind of a gesture, because Mycroft heard nothing more until Lestrade’s footsteps came to the door, and he opened it.

“I would apologize, but...”  
“I know”, Mycroft uttered, and they shared a good-natured grimace. “You fooled him quite well.”  
“Your knife trick worked quite well, too. But really, I have quite a lot of experience dealing with him”, Lestrade answered with a wide grin which soon faltered to something shy and maybe a little embarrassed: “This wasn’t the first time he has demanded my attention right in the middle of… Well, let’s just say that it’s easy to play the part you’ve played before.”  
Mycroft’s tension subsided bit by bit, and he smiled a little. Seeing (hearing!) Sherlock already in a little bit better condition somehow helped him cope with the horrible situation.  
“If he starts to suspect I’m your secret lover, I’ll spill the beans!”, Lestrade continued with a smile, when Mycroft stayed silent.  
“God spare me from that”, Mycroft winced, and glanced his watch. “I should be going. Thank you. This evening gave me a lot to think about.”  
“I’m sorry, this hasn’t been easy for you”, Lestrade muttered when they walked together to the hall. “Sherlock needs to talk to someone. I’m pretty sure John doesn’t know, but he has to realize it sooner or later.”  
“What if he does? They will live happily ever after?” Mycroft sneered, but without any strength behind it. He just could not see any good options in the situation.   
“Well, who knows?” Lestrade asked and spread out his hands. “His marriage hasn’t been a bed of roses either. At least this fall they lived separately for a while, maybe -”  
“Living in hope is the worst kind of self-deception”, Mycroft proclaimed. He could not reveal the real reason behind their separation. The presence of John Watson had caused so much problems to Sherlock, that...  
“Whatever you’re planning to do to John, just don’t”, Lestrade remarked like he had just read Mycroft’s thoughts. The man had clearly spent too much time with the Holmeses!  
“Sherlock hasn’t invented unrequited love. Every day thousands of people survive with it! I mean it. Don’t try to smooth his way, just talk to him. And listen! You two don’t listen to each other!”, Lestrade ranted facing him with irritation. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind. He had known for a while now that he had done a disservice to Sherlock by protecting him too much. But what else could he have done? After Redbeard’s burial, Sherlock had wiped his tears angrily and absorbed Mycroft’s words about the dangers of caring. Mycroft had been pleased, then. Whatever it takes, to avoid the tears of the dear little brother?

“What on earth could I say to him? I can’t stand to watch when he’s like that, and he will certainly notice. He hates that!”  
“What would you say if he was someone else?” Lestrade asked while pulling on his jacket.  
“Just… Forget who you’d want him to be and see who he really is. Don’t speak at him. Speak with him.”

Mycroft considered these words. Lestrade clearly believed he knew Sherlock better than Mycroft himself, and Mycroft didn’t know what to believe anymore. If Lestrade really knew as much as he let on, then why…  
“Why are you helping me?” Mycroft asked before he could stop himself. Lestrade gave a lopsided grin and winked: “Believe it or not, I like you both. And I see how much you care about him, no matter how much you hide behind that “caring is not an advantage” -crap. You just don’t see each other eye to eye”.

Mycroft had nothing to add to that. He watched as Lestrade grabbed his keys and nodded towards the kitchen table.  
“Eat the food, apparently I must be going”, he said with an apt Sherlock-imitation-eyeroll.  
“Thank you. I will of course compensate this for you”, Mycroft answered, holding on to the politeness even though his thoughts were already wandering elsewhere.  
“Tosh, that’s what friends are for! See ya!”, Lestrade called out. They shook hands, and then he was gone. 

Mycroft stood staring at the front door long after it had closed, and listened quietly when Lestrade walked away. Then he sat down at the table, pressed his face onto his palms and thought. 

He would return home and read everything new there was about Moriarty’s video spectacle. Then he would share all that with Sherlock, and prepare himself for the one singularly terrifying situation in his life. The one he had purposefully avoided for decades, and which he should have gotten into already at the grave of Redbeard. He was going to try and get to know the person his brother had grown up to be.

**Author's Note:**

> The first work I have published in English! I don't have beta, so constructive criticism and comments are very appreciated.


End file.
